


A Serious Man on Serious Earth

by R_Credence_Hannibal



Series: Metamorphosis [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred is dead, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Batman: Arkham Asylum - Serious House On Serious Earth Universe?, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Cameos, Character Death, Dark Bruce Wayne, Depressing, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Disturbing Themes, Heavy Angst, How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, Lazarus Pit, Lowkey I wrote this within three days because I have been procastinating too much, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Not Really Character Death, Not really but I'm tagging it anyway, References to Depression, Resurrection, Sad, Sad ending?, Temporary Character Death, What-If, drabble?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-20 02:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17013495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Credence_Hannibal/pseuds/R_Credence_Hannibal
Summary: “Afraid? Batman's not afraid of anything. It's me. I'm afraid. I'm afraid that The Joker may be right about me. Sometimes…I question the rationality of my actions. And I’m afraid that when I walk through those asylum gates... when I walk into Arkham and the doors close behind me... it’ll be just like coming home.”- Grant Morrison, Batman: Arkham Asylum - Serious House on Serious EarthOr…It didn’t take too long; Bruce watched as the Joker breathed his last breath, silently wishing it wasn’t. It didn’t take too long; Joker visited him beyond the grave. It didn’t take too long; Bruce made a decision that would ruin everything.But, what did Bruce have anyway?





	1. Step One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the injection.

 

 

 

        "Goodness is something to be chosen. When a man cannot choose he ceases to be a man." 

 

                                - Stanley Kubrick, _A Clockwork Orange_

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
        A cold _cold_ feeling shook through his body. He released the tight grip he had on _his_ hand. He had fallen asleep here... again. It wasn’t surprising to him; he imagined what Alfred would think if he saw this. He probably would have fainted on sight. He’d wake up and Bruce would say it was all a dream. Bruce had prayed this was all a dream.  
  
        From the moment he felt him slip through his gloved fingers to the moment he heard the sickening crack of his bones against the dirty Gotham alleyway, he had wished it was all a dream. He wanted it to be, more than anything. He vaguely remembered a time where he had wished the same for his parents. He had dawned the cape and cowl for them. That time had lasted, but it had faded. Then, his reasoning had changed; he wanted to be Batman for his family so that fate would never happen upon any of them. But in the solace of the GCPD’s Forensics analysis room, a quiet dark _empty_ place, he found that he had no reason anymore.  
  
        He used to believe in only black. But there is white there too. Stark, contrasting, and _painfully_ distracting white to combat black. But as he compared their skin, it seemed that Batman’s skin was more tan, if anything. Then, he thought up the memory once again. He needed to go home, he knew it was unhealthy. But, had that ever stopped him before? The question wasn’t much but he tried to distract himself with it. His eyes were red and his face pale with regret. He snuck away before the Forensics scientist returned.  
  
        It wasn’t long before he returned to the Batcave, his suit falling on the ground, piece by piece. His computer told him that the Mayor hosted an event last night to honor _his_ death. No one said anything about Batman that night (not that Bruce would have cared either way). Bruce wished the Joker would have killed him years ago. But, that wasn’t what he wished for; that wasn’t his reality. His reality was marked in shades of gray. He couldn’t deny it any longer, he had no one but himself to tell the lie to. He was _obsessed_ with the Joker. In every way he could be, shape and form, he could never get enough of him. It seemed he never would again.  
  
        The computer blinked to tell him that Dick wanted entry into the cave. Bruce denied this to him. He needed to be alone, alone with his thoughts. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been alone before; if he was honest with himself, he should have let him in. But his infinite amount of protégés couldn’t have seemed less important at that moment. Even Clark Kent had called, leaving a particularly awkward voicemail that Bruce never replied to. In a world full of black and white, he had suddenly fallen to gray. It was possible he had been here a long time. It was possible he had only just arrived. Either way, it didn’t make him any less confused. He always had clear-cut answers. Now, he did not.  
  
        He remembered how Joker’s face looked as he plummeted to his death. He had injected him with something earlier but Bruce could not care to remember what it was or if he had cured it; time was irrelevant. He had a tear in his eye and a distant smile on his face: he knew this was his end. But, Bruce didn’t want it to be. He wanted him back, he wanted something concrete to hold onto. No one could surprise him like Joker. No one could provoke him like Joker. No one could make him _feel_ like Joker. He had grown attached to him, to their fighting and their expository precursors. He wanted to talk to him again, to feel the acid blood flow beneath his skin again. He knew he was crazy. He didn’t believe in ghosts.  
  
        Bruce, within the few days that had past since the Joker’s death, has started to see him again. Even beside his dead body, he appeared. When Bruce sat down in the chair, he was there. What was worse was that he didn’t mind it. Joker would stand around, sometimes he’d laugh, sometimes he’d talk. There was no pattern to it or reasoning for it other than the _obvious_. Bruce was in a manic state of grief for his sworn enemy. But, he wondered, was he ever really his sworn enemy?

 

         _Right..?_

 

        Every fight, every plot, everything had always been stopped conveniently in time. Joker never wanted to destroy them both. Joker never really cared about destroying the city. He had only ever wanted Batman’s attention. And now he was dead, Bruce could no longer focus his attention anywhere else. His thoughts were consumed by his very presence. Bruce stood up and walked through him, as if to test the reality of him. The Joker just laughed and watched as Bruce tore off his cowl and threw it on the floor. He stared at the cowl on the floor, steady and still as the Joker slid a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t feel it there, because it wasn’t there, but he could see it. He wished he could feel it. He wished he could just have him here beside him. A hollow _empty_ feeling arose within. Bruce has felt this before, he knew it all too well. Then, Joker leaned into his ear, his hand extending down to his chest. Bruce knew he was too close but no one can see him anyway. He knew that this was wrong but it didn’t feel that way; it felt comforting and Bruce needed that. So, his stance stuck in place, Bruce continued to stare down at the cowl. Joker brushed his lips against his ear.  
  
        “If I’m not real, then who is, Batsy?”  
  
         _No one. No one is real._


	2. Step Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the transformation.

 

 

 

 

        "Initiative comes to thems that wait." 

 

 

                                - Stanley Kubrick, _A Clockwork Orange_

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
        Without warning, he appeared now. Wherever he went, whatever he did, Bruce would see the Joker following him. It wasn’t as if he could ignore it. Not when he touched him during dull business meetings with investors or when he cackled at him while he was out pulping petty criminals. Bruce went out on patrol less and less now, opting to study cases longer than he usually did. He wanted to be alone, with himself and his hallucination, his _dream_. Dick called him more than anyone else. Bruce never checked if anyone else bothered to call. His voicemails were never short, always trying to pry at Bruce’s heart just to get him to call. The last voicemail he left was two days ago. That one was of anger.

  
  
         _“Bruce, you need to pick up— I’m worried about you; everyone is! Sulking in your cave isn’t going to fix your problems... I don't know–– I just... you know what? I’m done! The Joker has killed thousands of people, why should his life mean anything to you? I- I... didn’t mean that... Bruce... just call, okay?”_

  
  
         _It would be funny if it weren’t so true._

 

        Bruce’s thoughts had become more and more morbid, thinking more deeply on things than he wanted to. He believed he was becoming more and more like the Joker every day. When he looked into the bathroom mirror, on the very top floor of Wayne Enterprises, Joker watched him splash his face with cold water. When he looked up, Bruce’s eyes were shining blue and his face pearlescent white; his lips were ruby red and his eyes lined with black and shaded with periwinkle. The Joker stood next to him with a grin. Bruce shook his head, the painted face disappearing as soon as it had appeared.  
  
        “Never thought you’d be a pretty boy, Bats,” he purred behind him. His voice never failed to send shivers down his spine. “I’m head over heels for you!” Joker did a theatrical tap dance move, bowing when he finished his short-lived dance. Bruce locked the bathroom door. He was in luck that this was his private one and not the public one he usually used. He wanted to feel a tune with his coworkers and employees. Recently, he distanced himself from everyone. Everyone except _him_.  
  
        “Looks don’t mean everything, Joker,” he responded. The Joker tilted up Bruce’s chin with his fingers, coercing him to look at himself in the mirror. He didn’t remember walking from the door to the mirror. He found the memory gap to be utterly distracting. Joker seemed unaware of Bruce’s shifting concentration, looking into the mirror and pulling out a tube of red lipstick. His expression was one of surprise at Bruce’s words.

 

         _Jesus... what is happening to me?_

  
  
        “Was I dreaming or did you just make a joke?” Joker asked. Bruce laughed a little and Joker gasped dramatically. “And now you’re laughing?! This... oh Batsy, I think I’m going to cry!” Bruce watched as Joker messily applied his lipstick, pausing a moment to hoist himself up on the countertop. He slipped the lipstick in one of the pockets on his suit vest. He hummed in contentment; Bruce sighed harshly in contrast. Joker turned to him with a pouty look. Bruce wasn’t entirely sure what the Joker would say next. He was of his own memory of the Joker, crafted to ensure the complete loss of his sanity to be sealed. Or, at least, that was what it felt like to Bruce. He thought about Joker falling, with that faint smile. Then, he thought about the venom he allowed to flow through his veins. But, finally, he thought of the moments where the Joker had kissed him but...

 

         _That never happened..._

 

        “What is it, Batman? Cat got your tongue?”  
  
        “No,” muttered Bruce. “I-I just—“ He stumbled over his words until he looked into the mirror, watching as the Joker rubbed his shoulders. “There are so many things I forgot to tell you.” Joker hummed once more, cackling like the lunatic he was.  
  
        “Is that so?” Joker whispered. He leaned in closer, brushing his chin against Bruce’s neck. "What would that be?” His tone was seductive, sending Bruce into a spiral of unknown emotions. He stared into the mirror until he had to close his eyes, turning away from the mirror towards the tiled floor. He attempted to regulate his sporadic breathing but eventually scrapped it all; this hadn’t happened since Bruce was a boy. He could feel his eyes grow hot with tears but he refused to let them fall. He was spiraling out of control but did nothing to prevent it. The Joker reappeared, crouching down in front of him and lifting up his chin; Bruce couldn’t feel it, he never could. But he played along with it because he _wished_ he _could_ feel his hands against his skin. Anything to prove that he was alive. “Please, tell me everything, Batsy!” Bruce looked him dead in the eyes. The Joker grinned back.  
  
        “I need you,” he started. His voice shook with hesitation; he didn’t want to admit any of this. Bruce proposed himself every worst possible scenario in his head before continuing. “I want you... You’re funny, I laugh at all your jokes, I-I wish I could’ve put you first... I can’t live like this, not without you. Never without you...” Bruce looked back down, almost embarrassed by the close proximity between himself and the Joker.  
  
        “Oh baby,” Joker cooed into his ear. “You know you could get me back, right?” Bruce stopped all thought and movement. His body went still like a statue. “Because you could tell the real me all that and not the... well, not the _fake_ me!” He cackled at the end of his sentence, standing back up and sending shivers down Bruce’s spine. He looked back up at the Joker with wide eyes. His realization was clear; the Joker was referring to the Lazarus Pit, the League of Assassin’s mystifying hole of rejuvenation. Ra’s had used it for centuries to regain his youth and retain immortality. Bruce knew this was wrong, so very wrong, so he waited. Bruce waited for him to say more, to add something. To tell him that there was another way. That he didn’t have to risk his family, the only thing that was left for him; Bruce knew that wasn’t true though, they had been fine on their own for years. They had been fine without him and would remain to do so. But, another part of Bruce told him they were still there. He shouldn’t be persuaded so easily. He should not have wanted this. But he couldn’t have denied that he did. Even without his hallucinations and his disconnection from Dick and his kids and his family, he still knew the result would always be the same.

 

        “Joker,” he spoke. The Joker’s slowly descending laughter ended. He looked back down at him, a new outfit appearing on his body with a snap of his fingers. He needed more than just fighting now, he needed comradery and companionship and... something else he would never have admitted to anyone. He needed the energy he received when he punched him and the energy he received when he saw him. He needed it; for a time, he thought he could fix it on his own. He thought distancing himself from the Joker would help. Spending more time with his family and helping out with the League — for a while, it did. But always lingering and waiting was the Joker; in his mind and his thoughts, all-consuming and, rather conveniently, it seemed the Joker sensed this too. He had lashed out in a fit of rage, slitting his wrists in his cell and screaming for salvation. Arkham was baffled and shocked by the action… until he woke up and saw the Bat again. Once he saw him, watching over him with that same grim expression he smiled and began the elongated laugh he always did. When he had arrived there, when he had been told, Bruce knew at that very moment why Joker always lingered. From the moment he had forgotten to catch his hand and the from the moment the Joker arose from within the chemical bath, they were tied together. Their fates were linked and sealed. This… this was not supposed to happen.

  
        “You know what you got to do, Batsy. You always have.” Then, he crouched down once more and planted a kiss on his forehead. He didn’t bother pretending he hated it, not even to himself. He leaned into it but when he closed his eyes and reopened them, he was gone. His vision became blurry then dark, his body felt everything then nothing. His veins burned and his eyes watered. His body shook with the seizure, his mind morphing into something entirely foreign Bruce was alone and alone when he needed someone the most. The phone never rang because Dick didn’t call. The secretary never checked on him because she was busy ordering Christmas presents for her family. His butler never spoke through his earpiece because he was dead and buried. The Justice League never came to the cave because they did not have any immediate threat. No one stopped Bruce Wayne from falling and no one saw him hit the ground. And when he hit the ground, he was reborn. Reborn and new and _changed_.

 

         _Alone... but not for long._

 


	3. Step Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the awakening.

 

 

        "It's funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen."

 

                                        - Stanley Kubrick, _A Clockwork Orange_                                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

        His technique was one created out of years of different methods and constant practice. Bruce never doubted himself when it came to his training. The only times he ever really did (missions with the league, etc.) were against other superhumans; but, even then, he usually had researched their weaknesses and used them to his advantage. He thought about his technique as he stole the Joker’s body from the GCPD’s body storage room. Bruce felt sick, both mentally and physically. There was a _deep_ pit within his stomach and he thought it to be guilt. It shouldn’t be surprising if he were to think more deeply about it. He had never broken the law like this, much less stolen a dead villain from a police department. A part of him considered stopping here but…

 

_Where’s the fun in that?_

 

        He pulled the Joker’s body from out of the containment, the chilling air threatening to send shivers through Bruce’s body; he took him in his arms, cradling him for a minute, searching for something within the action. When he found nothing in the gesture, he threw his torso over his shoulder (as he had done so many times before). He snuck out of the police department just as he had entered, making his way to the Bat-Wing he landed on a nearby abandoned building. Inside the plane, he had installed a small compartment, designed specifically to fit his body. He gently placed him inside the compartment, locking it and jumping in the pilot seat. But, before he could lift off, a tapping to his right alerted him. He turned to find Dick Grayson, clad in his Nightwing uniform, standing outside of the plane. He had seen everything. His stance was one of awkwardness; Bruce sighed internally, knowing this  _obstacle_ was bound to block him at some point. Dick did not wear his usual charm, his expression scarily close to lifeless. He too looked ill, like he hadn't slept for weeks. Bruce got out of the Bat-Wing once more, tension coming in the form of silence.

 

        “Batman,” he said steadily. “Why are you doing this?” He asked the question with pure despair, as if they had been disconnected for longer than he anticipated. “Where are you taking him?” Bruce stood still and resiliently silent. Dick circled him, trying to pry into Bruce’s thoughts. But, it didn’t work like it usually did. It was as if someone had traded Bruce in with a robot. Most would never tell the difference, most would never dare to question a difference. Dick knew because Bruce was his father, even if they weren’t related by blood. He could sense it in the air around him, in the blank expression on his face. He could see it in the unmoving posture and the hard stare on his person. There was no affection or love in his eyes for his son, not anymore. Dick felt cold, as if a chill overcame him within the moment. He walked closer to Bruce, stopping the circling. “Bruce?” he whispered. A twitch came from him and Dick took it and ran with it. “Bruce” –– he nervously laughed in between his words –– “What are you doing? You’re not seriously trying to––”

 

        “You lost me,” Bruce whispered. He redirected his intense stare downcast. Dick furrowed his eyebrows in confusion; relief was still far from him. His nervous laughter never returned.

 

        “What?” Dick questioned. Bruce did not stop looking at the ground next to Dick’s feet. “What are you saying?”

 

        “I am gone, Dick. I really tried, I can promise you that. I really did…” he said quietly. “But, I couldn’t keep up the charade any longer.” His voice sounded pained, like a syringe puncturing Dick’s ears.

 

        “Bruce, what are you talking about?” The tension returned, as did Bruce’s guard. “Where are you taking him?”

 

        “I’m sorry,” he muttered to himself, repeating it like a mantra. Behind Dick, Joker smiled, making finger gun motions towards his head. His eyes kept on Joker, almost entranced by his glistening eyes in the city skyline. He thought that if he looked closer, he would see Joker’s eyes glowing with a violent orange fire. He was at a standstill, unsure whether or not he could stop himself from the pressure, the need for the Joker. He licked his ruby lips and began to mutter something that Bruce couldn’t make out, his hearing filled with the sound of millions of muttering voices all at once. All of the voices, each one, sounding like the Joker. One was in a lower pitch, another in a higher. One was more feminine, another more masculine. Another more nasally, one smoother. Another more joyous, one depressive. The voices pounded within his head and he could feel himself lose focus and his sense of reality failing all at once. He felt in limbo, his vision shaky and his heart beating close to his chest. He could no longer see, only flashes of color and light in his eyes; his legs and his arms moved around frantically, against his own will. Bruce felt afraid, afraid of whatever was happening…

 

_Or…_

 

        His vision returned to him, blurry then clear. His body returned to him, shaky then still. His eyes saw red, his body felt weak. His fists dripped with blood, his son laid silently on the ground. He waited until his mind was clear enough to process his situation and then he began to laugh, lowly and darkly. The Joker appeared next to Dick, staring down at him and then looking up at Bruce. His smile was ear to ear. Bruce smiled back at him, picking up Dick and throwing him over his shoulder. He squished the two together in the small compartment, barely any room to lock it; Joker looked at his own body alongside Bruce who watched him, eyes _dripping_ with infatuation. He turned to him, watching Joker salute him then disappear into thin air. Bruce could hear police sirens encircling him as he got back into the pilot’s seat. Bruce could hear the engine of the Bat-Wing beneath him. But, no longer could he hear the voices.

 

        When Bruce arrived at the landing area, he made sure to clear the area around the League’s base, taking out assassin’s one by one as stealthily as possible. He went inside the base afterward, managing to take out every single clan member until Ra’s arrived. He did not remember which ones he killed and which ones he spared. He didn’t remember much of the process until Ra’s came out of his hiding hole. Bruce was near the Lazarus Pit, its immense energy calling out to him behind the door. It had its own voice as well. Many things seemed to have voices when they once did not. Ra’s wore lime green and satin robes, adorned with priceless jewels of many kinds. He looked upon the gruesome scene of his clan and began to clap.

 

        “I wondered when you would finally snap, Detective!” He continued to clap, the sound ringing in Bruce’s ears. It became more annoying as it went on. “What a show! But…” he trailed off, despite Bruce having no visual investment in his monologue; in fact, if anything, Bruce was quite tired of hearing such monologues. “I have to wonder…” He walked down a dark marble staircase, freshly polished and newly stained with specks and puddles of blood. The air smelled metallic and Bruce found it to be his only comfort. “What could cause such a radical change?” Ra’s finished. Bruce did not like it when he talked for too long; he cannot remember whether or not he ever liked this man. All he knew is he was in his way and he would not stop _talking_. He walked closer to Bruce, like he was in control. Bruce seemed to hate that the most, out of everything. He was cocky and he did not know he was in the way, always _talking_. Bruce caught him by surprise when he grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up in the air. “B-Br-ruce,” he choked. “P-Ple-ease.” The plea went on deaf ears. He waited until he knew Ra’s was dead and proceeded to the Pit. When he opened the door, he saw at least a hundred soldiers all turn to him in unison. He let them see their leader's dead body.

 

        When all the assassins were dead, Bruce crawled to the pit as Ra’s had done so many times before. He entered the green liquid and he could feel the difference. He could feel every cell, every atom in his body. He could feel them, each one, becoming layered. He could see life itself flash and then, then he swam to the surface, gasping for air and craving warmth. When he exited, he could see Talia on the overlooking balcony staring down at him, wide-eyed and terrified. He looked back up at her and returned to her a smile. She ran away, leaving Bruce to finish the task he came here to do in the first place. He returned to the plane, finally finding it safe to land it close by. He slung both bodies on both of his shoulders, smirking quietly to himself as he did, whistling a tune he had heard in the movies. Joker followed him as he did, singing the same song he had always sung during their battles.

 

        " _I'm happy again, I'm laughin' at clouds! So dark up above..._ "

 

        When they got to the Pit, Bruce put Joker’s body in first and quietly watched as the green took him. The atmosphere changed, morphing into something more toxic.

 

_More relatable._

 

        Joker flung out of the green, violently seeking out Bruce. Once he found him, cowl-and-cape-clad, he seemed to pause, taking a few minutes to calm himself. Then, he started to laugh and Bruce eventually joined in; Joker, the _real_ one, wrapped his arms around Bruce. He hugged the Joker back, holding him so tightly as to not lose him again. He kissed him on the forehead, mimicking what the _fake_ Joker had done to him a few weeks ago. Joker stilled, then rumbled with more laughter but a different kind. Joker pulled off his cowl, looking into Bruce's darkly circled eyes. Then, he kissed him feverishly. Only when he pulled away did Bruce stop returning. Joker smiled, then cackled; Bruce joined once more, happy to hear it once more fill the silence. Their laughter could fill an auditorium. Bruce was the one to pull away from their embrace. He stepped out of the green and walked back into it with Dick. He dunked his head underneath the surface, waiting…

 

_Wishing._

 

        And just like Joker, he arose from the acid green depths with a new purpose, wild and unpredictable. When he eyed Bruce and Joker, he cocked his head to the side, almost threateningly. Then he walked past them, almost animal-like, and ran out of the base. Joker watched as he did, calling out to him.

 

        “Bye bye, baby bird! I hope the other birds treat you well!” He waved for added effect. Bruce watched him intently. Joker turned to him eventually, smiling widely. There was a moment of silence, then the Joker found something to say. “Oh… this will be fun, won’t it Batsy!?” Bruce nodded.

 

        “Yes, it will.” The Joker laughed, Bruce laughed, and the world was quiet.

  
         _Never quiet again._


End file.
